Chapter 1
The Irish hills seethed like a giant's cauldron, a baffling mixture of rugged stone, green meadow, and mist broken by patches of sky blue as a fairy's wing. Even the trees seemed human, digging their roots like fingers into earth pulsing with the passion and pain of a land at war with itself.
Legend claimed the Tuatha de Danaan, the fairy folk who had once ruled the island, had lost a great battle. But in the end, they had defeated their mortal enemies by melting into trees and hillsides, stones and streams, fleet red deer and the most cherished reaches of peoples memories.
Now, another battle was being fought for Ireland—a war between druid gods of earth and Saint Patrick’s God in heaven.
Yet, though Caitlin of the Lilies had been raised within the holy confines of the Abbey of Mary of Infinite Mercy, and though she loved the sisters there, she understood a truth they could never comprehend.
No matter how many saints hallowed Irish ground, Ireland would always have a pagan heart.
She could feel its steady throb no matter how determinedly she bent her head in prayer, the voice of the land calling to her, wild and sweet.
You can never be like the rest of them, Caitlin of the Lilies, for you belong to me.
She had fought that indefinable something that made her different from all the other women.
Sometimes she had feared it, trying to fit herself into the practical world of the nuns.
Yet never once in twenty years of life had she been able to deny that it existed.
The spell cast upon her the night she was abandoned at the druid altar was real. And she had never felt its pull more strongly than she did today. Her day. The anniversary of the day twenty years ago when Reverend Mother had found her, a newborn babe wrapped in the robe of a chieftain.
Caitlin glanced back at the walls of the abbey, knowing that there were plenty among Reverend Mother's pious flock who disapproved of her yearly pilgrimage to the block of stone with its ancient writings.
They implored Caitlin to spend the day fasting and in prayer.
To resist her shameful link to things heathen.
Yet how could she do as they bade her? It was the one time in the year she had something to hold, something to touch, to assure herself that the voices in her dreams were real.
She shivered in anticipation, her bare feet light on the cool moss as she raced through the trees, certain the yearly offering would be there.
She could almost feel it—the cool stem of one perfect lily between her fingers.
She could nearly smell it, the fragrance whispering sweet possibilities.
The precious knowledge that someone beyond the abbey walls still cared for her.
Whoever had abandoned her had not forgotten her. Somewhere in the wide world Caitlin had never seen, a mother, a father, a whole family might wait to claim her.
She could not suppress a sting of guilt, a sense that she was ungrateful.
No mother, real or imaginary, could have loved her more than the mistress of the abbey.
Yet, had not Reverend Mother been the first one who guided her steps along the path to the druid stone?
Hadn’t the nun’s mist-gray eyes been shadowed with a wistful sorrow, as if she knew that this was where Caitlin belonged, no matter how much Reverend Mother might wish otherwise?
Caitlin felt a twinge, but she promised herself that after she delighted in the lily and the imaginings it always brought, she would go to Reverend Mother's cell, show her the perfect flower.
She would lean against the older woman's knee as she had every night since childhood and wrap herself tight in real love that never faltered.
Love that should be enough, a voice inside Caitlin whispered.
Nay, she would not tarnish this day with regrets or self-recriminations. Reverend Mother always wished her to feel joy on these journeys. From the beginning, she had understood the questing spirit in Caitlin, the restlessness of a young girl who had never seen the wonders that lay beyond the abbey.
How many times had those prayerful lips curved with indulgence as she told Caitlin her own memories of the outside world?
The great fortress where she had grown up, favorite daughter of a mighty warrior.
The thrill of cattle raids, the adventures spun by bards about the hero Cuchulain.
She had said other things as well, confided her regret over the heartbreaking rift between her and her beloved father when she had refused to marry any one of a dozen suitors, choosing instead the life of a nun.
Reverend Mother had hinted at different dangers other nuns spoke more plainly of, wickedness and sin, horrors so unspeakable the women had fled to the abbey to escape them.
Yet, in spite of all the tales she heard, Caitlin had fashioned the Irish wilds into a world where all women were brave and every man a hero, and each year a perfect lily drew her closer to that magical realm.
Caitlin grimaced. Not that she had had much success imagining the bold, handsome heroes. From the beginning, the abbess had told her it was possible that one day she would leave the abbey, that marriage might be her destiny.
Yet the only example of a man Caitlin had ever seen was Father Columcille, a wrinkled gnome with rheumy eyes she had watched with great interest as a child, certain they would pop out of their sockets at any moment.
In the end, the men in Reverend Mother's tales had become creatures elusive and mysterious as the pagan gods Cuchulain had fought.
But it did not matter if they were real or not, Caitlin thought with a toss of her head.
It was her world, her imaginings, and today was the one day in the year she could venture beyond the abbey's stone walls to sample the magic of that world just a little.
She rounded a tussock of heather, the trees thinning, the sun falling across her in great bars of light.
Suddenly she slowed her steps, uncertain why.
Did she feel the reverence in this old and holy place?
Was she hoping perhaps this time the mystery of her birth might be revealed?
Or was her hesitation something simpler?
The knowledge that once she walked through the last archway of oaks and crossed to the great slab of stone to claim her lily, the enchantment would be over for another year?
One hand smoothed a cascade of raven locks. The other settled the folds of her simple robes about her, but no power on earth could ever tame the exhilaration in her fairy-blue eyes.
Intent on making the delight last as long as possible, Caitlin fastened her gaze on the ground, carefully placing her bare feet to avoid spring's first blossoms that scattered the seldom-used path.
Her fingers tightened in the rough cloth of her robes as she glimpsed the base of the massive stone.
Slowly, she let her eyes trek up the gray surface, past intricate carvings she could not decipher.
Sucking in a deep breath, she raised her gaze to the broad top of the druid altar on which her lily had always lain.
Caitlin froze. There, upon the altar, lay a man, his dark lashes pillowed against high-slashed cheekbones. Did he sleep? Or did he lie there in some sort of fairy enchantment? Part of the magical spell that had bound her from her birth?
He might have been Cuchulain, called back from the land of heroes, so powerful was the long sweep of his body. Rugged planes and hollows and corded muscles were barely disguised by the linen of his shirt and the thick wool folds of the garment wrapped around him.
Hair the sleek brown of a stag's coat was threaded with strands of fiery red that snagged the sun.
The waves glowed rich and thick against the tanned planes of a face as fiercely beautiful as a peregrine's.
His nose, an arrogant blade, was strong as the short sword bound at his waist, his cheekbones carved in a high, proud arch.
But it was his lips that held Caitlin transfixed.
Lips soft, sensual and masculine, above a stubborn jut of jaw.
The mouth of a bard captured in the face of a warrior.
She swallowed hard, certain that she could never have her fill of gazing at this man. One glimpse, and her world had altered forever.
Was this what the lilies had promised? The mysteries that had always surrounded her? Was this her destiny?
Was he mortal at all? She trembled at the thought.
Could it be possible that he was something far different?
An offering from the ancient ones who had melted into the trees and the mountains, setting Ireland aglow in countless shades of green, feeding the island with the life in their souls?
Could this magnificent creature be woven of that beautiful magic? For her?
The thought was terrifying in its sweetness. Yet could this encounter have any meaning besides fate? Every year, there had been a lily waiting for her on this day. Now he lay in its place.
She moved to touch the hard column of his arm, then hesitated. Such an impersonal gesture seemed a cold way to begin an enchantment. Moved by an instinct she barely understood, she leaned toward him, felt the heat of his breath against her own cheek. He was real, she thought numbly.
Closing her eyes, she pictured his awakening when she brushed the hot satin of his mouth with her own. Summoning up her last bit of courage, Caitlin lowered her lips to his.
A roar shattered the clearing, a flash of sinew and hard, grasping hands catching her in a bruising grasp.
She tried to scream, but in a heartbeat, she was sprawled on her back on the stone, a crushing weight pinning her down.
Caitlin struggled, a shriek rising in her throat, but a hard hand crushed down on her mouth, stifling any sound.